


The Last Hunt

by timelymeanwhile



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 11:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelymeanwhile/pseuds/timelymeanwhile
Summary: "On our last hunt," said Uncle, "the Prince was unable to hold a spear." He looked to Laurent—riding at his side, spear in hand—and smiled. Like most of Uncle's smiles, it did not reach his eyes. "How he's grown."A year and a half after Marlas, the Regent takes his nephew to Chastillon, and Laurent begins to extract himself from his uncle's strangling grip.





	The Last Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> My love for Laurent compelled me to explore his backstory. He's fifteen here, and there are references to abusive experiences at thirteen and fourteen. Nothing graphic or gratuitous, but awful and upsetting nonetheless—so please note the warnings.

"My uncle has ridden to Chastillon. He hunts boar. He likes the chase. He likes the kill, too."  
— _Captive Prince_

* * *

"On our last hunt," said Uncle, "the Prince was unable to hold a spear." He looked to Laurent—riding at his side, spear in hand—and smiled. Like most of Uncle's smiles, it did not reach his eyes. "How he's grown."

"Indeed," said Lord Jeurre, who rode at Uncle's other side. It was a rare honor for a member of the Council to join the royal household on a hunting trip to Chastillon: Uncle was sure to collect on the favor. He always did. "You'll have grown into your brother's armor soon enough, Your Highness."

Laurent forced out a tight smile. Probably, Jeurre meant no insult—probably, in fact, he meant flattery. The trouble with Uncle's court was that the former so often resembled the latter, and compliments often cloaked knives. 

At the moment, he felt thoroughly stabbed.

"I should hope," he said aloud in his most detached courtier's drawl, "that a hunt would have no use for armor. It does tend to weigh one down."

"Many a man killed on a hunt would have wished for a suit of armor," Jeurre said dryly. "A desperate boar is deadly." 

Uncle was still smiling. "So are spears."

Loud barks from the hunting dogs ahead—the prey had been spotted once more. Something savage sparked in Uncle's eyes as he and Jeurre both spurred their horses forward, two huntsman servants close behind. Laurent braced himself, and followed.

The sun-dappled woods of Chastillon were long-familiar territory: he had spent hours exploring them in simpler times, playing and racing with Auguste while Father and Uncle went hunting. Despite excelling at all sports and princely pastimes, Auguste had disliked hunts, avoiding them as often as he could. _There is nothing noble about taking life for sport,_ he'd told Laurent once, with a rare frown. _Killing shouldn't be a game._

But killing _was _a game, one of Uncle's very favorite games, and Laurent—who knew the rules to all of Uncle's games—knew that he never lost.

They had been in pursuit of today's prey, a long-tusked breed of boar called sanglier, for half the day or more. Uncle's preferred hunting style was _par force__: _he liked to track and chase his prey until it was exhausted, weakened by fatigue; he liked to lure it into traps then let it go, crazed and confused from being toyed with.

This particular boar had already mauled three hounds and maimed two huntsmen. It was crazed, but not confused: it understood the intent of its tormentors, and did not intend to go down without a ferocious fight. By the time the hunting dogs had managed to corner the beast and hold it at bay, the boar was so weary it could run no more. It brandished sharp tusks still streaked red with blood, and glared at the circling hounds and horses with blazing feral eyes: daring any of them to come closer.

"The kill is yours, Your Highness," called Jeurre, ever deferential.

Uncle's gaze found Laurent's across the agitated pig and pacing hounds. "Let the Prince try," he said coolly, reining in his steed. "It's his first hunt with a spear, after all."

The two remaining huntsmen exchanged uneasy looks at that. "Is that—wise, Your Highness?" ventured Jeurre, glancing at Laurent uncertainly. "He's only a boy."

"I'm fifteen," snapped Laurent, not meeting Uncle's eyes. Auguste had been fifteen when he had killed his first boar; the castellan still spoke of it at Chastillon. Uncle had been there. Uncle had probably urged Auguste on to his first kill, too. There was nothing Uncle loved watching more than a loss of innocence. 

"Yes," said Uncle, arching a brow. "I would hardly call Laurent a _boy _any longer." Laurent felt heat flood his cheeks as Uncle gave him a slight, knowing smile. "You remember how to spear a boar, don't you?"

There was an enormous painting, above Uncle's bed at Chastillon, of a Lord holding a boar at the end of his spear, pierced through the throat. Repeated trips to Chastillon ensured Laurent had memorized its every shape and line—he'd had plenty of time to stare at it, bent over the bed.

He tightened his grip on the spear, and spurred his horse forward.

The boar snorted fiercely at his approach, and attempted a final charge—halted at once by three snarling hounds, who seized and bit the beast until it staggered, bleeding, to the ground.

"Now, Your Highness!" shouted one of the huntsmen. With Damianos of Akeilos flashing across his vision, Laurent lifted the spear, and brought it down with all his strength through flesh and muscle and bone into the wounded boar's heart. 

Someone was screaming. After a dazed, dizzying moment, Laurent realized it was the boar. Impaled, it drove itself further into the spear, frothing at the mouth as it attempted to reach Laurent. Dimly, he was aware of the huntsmen starting forward, and stopping short at Uncle's sharp order to stay back. "This is the Prince's kill."

"Your Highness, the Prince will be _killed."_

Laurent, struggling against the thrashing boar, did not hear Uncle's answer. Even now, the beast was _strong—_any moment, the wood of the spear would snap, or Laurent would be dragged to the ground at the mercy of the pig he'd skewered.

His horse, Augustine, stood her ground: perfectly trained as ever. Mirroring her calm with concentrated focus, Laurent tightened his seat in the saddle, and fixed the face of Damianos in his mind. Bracing the end of the spear against his shoulder, he pressed down with his entire weight, driving it through the other side of the boar and into the dirt.

Trapped, the pig squealed, then collapsed, convulsing in a pool of its own blood. As the dogs howled in triumph, Laurent released the spear, and swung down in a smooth dismount as the others rushed forward.

"Well done, Your Highness!" exclaimed Jeurre, clapping Laurent on the back. "It would appear you have a talent."

The familiar weight of Uncle's hand followed a moment later, squeezing his shoulder. "Good boy." Laurent shivered. "Ride back to Chastillon," his uncle ordered, turning to the huntsmen, "and return with dressings for the boar." They obeyed at once, galloping off with the hounds at their heels.

The fallen boar gazed up at Laurent with wild, anguished eyes, still squealing softly. Picturing his brother's murderer no longer worked: the longer he stared at the suffering animal, the harder it became not to picture his brother instead. The trees were spinning. Laurent staggered back against Augustine, slipping on the bloodied dirt.

"Your Highness!" cried Jeurre. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Laurent managed. He wasn't. Why did he feel so faint?

The boar's eyes were glazing over, now, but Uncle's gaze was keen and sharp. "Perhaps you should return as well," he said thoughtfully to Jeurre. It sounded like a suggestion, but it was an order—and Jeurre, although the newest member of the Council, had dealt with Uncle long enough to take it as such.

"Yes, Your Highness," he said immediately, mounting his own horse again and refraining from further comment. With a final anxious glance, he rode off after the huntsmen, leaving Laurent alone with Uncle and the dying boar.

"Your first time," Uncle said after a moment, voice rich with amusement—reaching out to cup Laurent's cheek with one gloved hand. "It does get easier." Laurent closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing. "Now," Uncle's soft, smooth voice went on, tracing leather circles on Laurent's skin, "why don't we finish what you started?" Laurent opened his eyes. Uncle reached into his hunting leathers, and pulled out a knife.

"It's imperative," he told Laurent, looking down at the twitching boar with something akin to hunger, "to drain the blood at once, to improve the flavor." He bent to trace the bloody tusks with the edge of the knife. "The meat will be tainted either way, of course. It always is, in grown boars. The best boars to eat are younger, smaller."

The boar was barely breathing, now, and neither was Laurent. 

"It's the sexual organs," Uncle explained pleasantly, dragging the knife along the boar's throat and expertly aligning it with an artery. "They spoil the taste. The only way to prevent boar taint is to castrate them, before they reach maturity." He glanced up at Laurent. "But I suppose it's too late for that." The knife sliced fast and deadly across the pig's throat.

Laurent inhaled sharply as blood poured out of the boar, drenching Uncle's hand in red. Still holding the bloody knife, he stood, considering Laurent in silence for a long, precarious moment. "It was a mistake," he said finally, "to go for the heart, instead of the throat. Do you know why?" 

Words, at the moment, escaped Laurent. He slowly shook his head, and Uncle smiled.

"Men, as you know," he said, taking out a handkerchief and cleaning the knife, "cannot survive a stab through the heart." Laurent's breath caught in his throat. "Some boars can." He dropped the bloody cloth and fixed Laurent with a strange, calculating stare, sunlight glinting off the silver of the knife. "But no beast, not even a boar, can survive a slit throat."

They gazed at each other, inches away with the knife between them. Laurent's heart was hammering so hard he half-expected it to pound out of his chest, leaving a gaping wound like that of the dead boar's. Beneath the dizziness and nausea, a cold knot of fear uncoiled in his stomach—for the first time, he felt truly, consciously afraid of Uncle.

When he stepped forward, Laurent moved unthinkingly, acting on instinct: seizing the saddle behind him, he mounted Augustine again and spurred her to a gallop in one quick, fluid movement. He may have been a novice at hunting, but he knew how to ride a horse.

"Laurent!" Uncle's powerful voice rang out through the trees, distant and faded the faster Laurent raced through them. _"Laurent!"_

The forest flew past in a blur: Augustine was swift and agile, and she'd raced these woods before. Auguste had trained her himself as a filly, and gifted her to Laurent on his thirteenth birthday. He had thought to name her Hennike, after their mother, but Laurent had declared at once that he would call her Augustine instead. Auguste had smiled his warm, sunlit smile and said, _If she's worthy of the name, she had better be as fast as your pony._

The memory of a teasing, smiling Auguste landed sick and heavy in Laurent's mind, warping quickly into the memory of a bleeding corpse in golden armor, pierced through by a sword.

_Men, as you know, cannot survive a stab through the heart._

Laurent reined Augustine to a sudden, jarring halt, staggered to his knees in the dirt, and heaved up the contents of his stomach until he was retching bile.

The sound of hooves in the distance drew closer: Uncle had tracked him, like the boar. When his grey stallion thundered at last into view, his expression was stormy. Dismounting to tie his horse and Laurent's to nearby trees, he said in a hard, steely voice, "You're too old for these childish games, Laurent."

Laurent was distantly aware of hot tears tracking down his cheeks, and wiped them away under the guise of wiping his mouth. He had sworn, at the age of thirteen, to never let his uncle see him cry again. He had sworn a lot of things, at thirteen.

“I want to go back.”

With an exasperated sigh, Uncle reached out a gloved hand stained with blood. “Then come—”

“To Arles.” Laurent pushed himself up, forced himself to his feet. “I don’t want to be here anymore, I want...” He wanted his books, he wanted his own bedroom, he wanted to sit alone at Auguste's tomb and cry. “I want to go home."

"You sound like a child," said Uncle, and Laurent nearly laughed at the displeasure in his voice. _Not for much longer, Uncle. _"What kind of prince cannot stomach a hunt? What kind of prince flees from a dead boar? Your brother never shied away from a kill."

"My brother is dead," snapped Laurent, and suddenly—shamefully—tears were stinging his eyes and trailing down his cheeks again, too fast and too many to hide.

"Oh, Laurent." The hard lines of Uncle's face softened, melted into molten sympathy. Uncle always liked it when he cried. "My sweet nephew." He drew Laurent into his arms, enveloping him in familiar warmth. "My beautiful boy." That bloody gloved hand stroked through Laurent's hair, soothing. "If I could take away your pain, I would."

Laurent shut his traitorous eyes—breathing in his uncle's scent, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. It was easy, to fall back into Uncle's comforting embrace, after weeks of coldness and distance—weeks of Uncle almost visibly recoiling every time Laurent’s voice cracked; weeks of Uncle’s thinly-veiled revulsion at every new betrayal from his body, every fine new golden hair. It felt good to be held, to be safe, to be cherished like something precious once again. The strange, fearful moment by the boar felt ages away, a distant nightmare.

"Auguste would be glad," Uncle was saying quietly, tracing the laces down the back of Laurent's riding leathers, ignoring the way he tensed at the name, "to know that we still have each other." 

A chill shivered through Laurent, ice-water trickling down his spine. "No," he said, backing away, head spinning—stopping abruptly when his back hit the trunk of a tree.

"No?" repeated Uncle. His voice had lowered. His gaze had sharpened. 

"No," Laurent said again. The syllable felt foreign on his tongue. His mouth was moving without his permission, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Auguste would never have allowed this, Auguste would have stopped—” He drew a ragged breath. “—you.”

“Me,” said Uncle, soft and dangerous. There was something predatory about his stillness, now, as though he had resumed hunting and was preparing to strike. Laurent looked down, unable to meet that glacial gaze, unable to do anything but stare at the leaves on the ground and try to remember how to breathe. “Was it me, then, who crawled into your bed, like a monster from one of your children's tales? I seem to remember things differently.”

Laurent dug his fingers into his palms as his uncle stepped closer, looming over him, pressing him back into the tree. “Refresh my memory, Laurent—who came to whose bed first?” Uncle bent down to implore: “Who _came_ first?”

Laurent closed his eyes and forced air into his lungs; forced down the remembered relief of his uncle’s hands pulling him closer in that enormous crimson bed. The paralyzing confusion of those same hands sliding beneath his nightshirt. The shivering shock of it; the shameful surrender of control. The first time his body had betrayed him.

Uncle's mouth was at his ear. “Who begged me, afterwards, to stay?”

The rough bark of the tree was digging into Laurent's back, Uncle's fingers pressing into his shoulder hard enough to bruise. He felt, not for the first time, like a trapped animal: frozen in his uncle's snare. Augustine, still restrained nearby, gave a distressed whinny.

“Perhaps Auguste would understand, if it were only that one night," Uncle continued, low and melodic, as if reciting a dark nursery rhyme. "You were lonely, and grieving. You missed him so very much.” There was an edge of amusement in his voice now. Laurent bit down the bile in his throat. “But you didn’t stop there, did you, Laurent? You came back, again and again. You _came,_ again and again.”

Uncle's beard scratched against the sensitive skin of his throat: Laurent felt, rather than saw, his smile. “What would Auguste think, to hear you moaning for me like a wanton little whore? To see you begging on your knees for a taste of my cock?”

“Stop.” The word tore itself out of Laurent’s chest so violently he almost heaved again, almost crumpled to the dirt to vomit blood. Something staunch and iron-willed within him kept him standing.

Uncle was still speaking, ruthless and relentless. “What would he say, if he could see how you’ve applied yourself more seriously to the skills of a _pet_ than those of a prince? Would he still be proud of you, I wonder? Or would he be ashamed?”

_“Stop,”_ Laurent heard himself exhale again. His pulse had quickened to the edge of panic; his breath was coming in sharp, shallow gasps. He spoke the word his uncle loved above all others. “Please.”

But even begging couldn't stop him now—Uncle wouldn't stop until he had delivered the killing blow. "Perhaps," he said, pressing harder, "you like to imagine he would be jealous. Perhaps..." A long, considering pause. "...it was your brother's cock you wanted, all along."

The words landed as intended: as a verbal spear to the heart. Laurent's hand was raised before he knew what he had raised it for—to strike his uncle? To gouge out his eyes? Then Uncle's hand was encircling his wrist, tightening and twisting until something snapped, and Laurent cried out in pain. 

He was spun around and shoved against the tree again with his arm twisted behind him: Uncle's entire body pressed against him from behind, parting his thighs and kicking his legs apart. Uncle had never used anything more than wine or drugs to overpower him, had never—_forced_ him, like a pet in the ring—but he was going to do so now. Laurent heard it in the hitch of his uncle's breath, felt it in the way he hardened the more Laurent struggled against him: Uncle was going to rape him, here in the dark heart of the woods, where no one could hear him scream.

Laurent was not going to scream.

Suddenly, the sound of hooves: Augustine had torn free of Uncle's rope and was charging toward them. Uncle staggered back as she reared up, kicking and roaring—then reached once more into his hunting leathers, and drew out the knife.

"No!" Laurent threw himself between them in a breathless lunge, turning his back on his uncle to face his beautiful, loyal, magnificent horse. "Augustine," he said as calmly as he could manage, hearing his voice crack and not caring. "It's me." She calmed at the sound of his voice, huffing and neighing as he stroked her. "It's fine, girl," he murmured, the way Auguste used to—leading her slowly back to the tree. He wound the rope again, tighter, ignoring the pain shooting up his arm from his injured wrist. "Everything is fine."

"Clearly," Uncle's voice said from behind him, "you do not have your brother's skill with horses. Remind me, Laurent, what skills you _do _have."

Laurent finished fastening the rope, light-headed from the pain in his wrist, and turned. "I've been told I have a talent for hunting boar."

Uncle's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? It seems you have forgotten our last lesson." He looked to the knife. "Beasts who act out get sliced open."

The woods spun again around him as Laurent slid to his knees in a single practiced motion, ignoring Augustine's anxious whinny behind him. "Please," he said quietly, heart pounding—begging again, and too desperate to care. "Uncle, please, don't hurt her. I'll do anything you ask."

"Anything," said Uncle, blue gaze bright and canny—a slight smile tugging at his lips as he toyed with the knife.

Laurent swallowed down his pain and panic, and opened his mouth.

* * *

Paschal set his wrist upon their return to the fortress. 

_The Prince has had a fall, _Uncle had said, leading Laurent in with mussed hair, the knees of his trousers smeared with dirt. _His horse went wild, poor thing—startled, in the woods. Dangerous, for a prince's steed to be so flighty. If it happens again, we will have to put her down._

Now Laurent sat very still on the physician's table, sipping a tonic to relieve pain: sleeve unlaced to expose his swollen wrist. Paschal applied a salve, saying gently, "You are a well-taught rider, Your Highness."

Laurent, at the moment, felt _well-taught _indeed. "Even well-taught riders fall."

"Not when riding a well-trained horse." Paschal's cooling fingers moved carefully over the delicate bones in his wrist. "Yours was trained very well, was she not?"

Laurent felt himself wince. "I would prefer not to speak of my brother." The pain in his wrist was a dull throb, faded to nothingness against the phantom pain in his chest. "Or my horse."

"As you wish, Your Highness," said Paschal. Cooling salve applied, he reached for bandages: winding them tightly, compressing the sprain. 

Laurent wondered wildly if he might be able to compress his heart, as well.

"Do you require anything else?" Paschal asked, when it was done—clarifying softly, "For the fall."

Laurent looked at him, and felt thirteen again: coming to Paschal with increasingly far-fetched explanations for soreness and hoarseness and bruising; increasingly ludicrous requests for tonics and salves.

"No," he said flatly. His jaw still ached. His throat felt raw. He longed for a bath. "Thank you, Paschal."

The physician bowed, and Laurent set down the tonic and stood. Careful and composed, he walked to the door.

"Your Highness?" Laurent glanced back. Paschal wore a keen, searching expression. "Congratulations, on the boar. I heard the kill was yours."

"You heard wrong," said Laurent in a cold, hard voice that didn't sound like his own. "It was my uncle's."

Behind him, the door slammed shut.

* * *

They feasted, that night, on the boar.

Laurent sat straight-backed on the dais at his uncle's side, bathed and impeccably groomed—sleeve laced tightly over the bandages at his wrist. Boar meat lay untouched on a platter before him, cooked so rarely it was almost raw. The sound of feasting filled the hall and surged to a deafening cacophony, drowning out all other noise.

Dimmed and distorted, as if from very far away, he heard a voice ask, "Are you ill, Your Highness?"

The wan, puzzled face of Lord Jeurre swam into focus, seated to his left. "I don't care for boar," Laurent said without expression, placing his hands in his lap to hide their trembling. One of the hunting hounds—begging for scraps beneath the table—nuzzled at his leg. Laurent absently scratched behind its ears, the constricted feeling in his chest loosening slightly.

"Ah." Jeurre looked to his own half-eaten platter, shared with the pet at his side. "It does have a particularly strong taste. The meat is—"

"Tainted," finished Uncle, cool gaze locking onto Laurent's. He lifted a piece of meat on his knife—took a slow bite, chewed, and swallowed. "You may have heard," he said to Jeurre, "the Prince fled the scene of the kill. He rode away so quickly from the sight of blood that he fell from his horse." Jeurre frowned, and Uncle set down the knife to place a heavy hand on Laurent's bruised shoulder. "I know some may feel it cowardly, or weak, for a Prince to be so tender-hearted, but I feel it speaks well of his character, to be incapable of harming any creature."

Jeurre's thin mouth twisted in an attempt at a smile. "You are certainly indulgent with him, Your Highness."

"What uncle wouldn't be, with such a nephew?" Uncle's hand tightened on his shoulder, and Laurent clenched his fist under the table, refusing to flinch.

"Will you have wine, Your Highness?"

A page had approached the table with a decanter. He was dressed in the livery of a house servant, but so small that the tunic hung off him, making him look even younger than he was. Twelve, perhaps—thirteen at most. Light brown hair, cherubic features. He gazed up at Laurent with something close to veneration. His eyes were very blue.

Before Laurent could give a sharp shake of his head, Uncle picked up Laurent's empty goblet, and said, "Yes."

When the wine had been poured, the boy bowed, and stepped down from the dias. Uncle's eyes followed him all the way out of the hall.

Laurent stared at the goblet. He had seen the distinctive pale powder as soon as he'd sat down; had left the cup unfilled accordingly. Now his uncle's favorite pleasure drug waited for him at the bottom of the wine.

The last time Uncle had drugged him, the dose had been... excessive. Laurent had awakened pained and dazed in his uncle's bed, with no memory of the night before. Somehow, that had felt worse than anything else—not to remember, not to know, not to have any control at all. Perhaps that was the only way Uncle could want him, now: either unwilling or unconscious.

"It will numb the pain," said Uncle with an edge of irony, pushing the goblet forward—turning the force of his full attention on Laurent now that the page boy was gone. "From the fall."

"How thoughtful, Uncle," said Laurent, empty stomach churning. With Uncle watching closely, he picked up the goblet with a firm, steady hand, and drank.

Moments later, a trumpet sounded. The hall fell silent as the castellan stepped forward. "It is again the great honor of Chastillon," he proclaimed with a flourish, "to welcome His Royal Highness the Crown Prince and His Royal Highness the Regent of Vere." Applause. Applause. Applause. "We are honored as well this evening by the presence of Councillor Jeurre, who has graciously offered a pet performance as tonight's entertainment."

Pet _performances,_ as they had come to be called, were Uncle's most avant-garde innovation as Regent. Arles had gained something of a newfound reputation for debauchery, in the past year, as pets grew ever more desperate to please and courtiers grew ever more accustomed to public pleasure. It kept the court satiated and distracted, while keeping Uncle firmly in control: seated above them all, unmoved by the spectacle, pulling strings for his own purposes—or, often enough, simply for his own amusement.

The first time Laurent had attempted to defy him, failing to come to his rooms at the appointed hour, Uncle had arranged a poignant performance in the ring the following day: his hired thug, Govart, brutally raping a pretty blond pet into unconsciousness. That night, Laurent had arrived at his uncle's doors with precise punctuality. Lately, however, such theatrics had not been necessary—lately, Uncle was as likely to turn Laurent away as he was to summon him.

Jeurre's pet was slim and lithe, with shining dark hair and smooth pale skin. Gauzy silks fanned out around him as he stood, smirking, and sauntered to the center of the hall. Every eye in the room followed him hungrily, sliding over his curves and lingering on the earrings that glittered from each ear: rubies, rare and expensive. The Veretian aristocracy loved jewels, and wore them extravagantly—though rarely as earrings. Earrings, as Laurent well knew, were typically reserved for pets.

His own ears had been pierced on his fourteenth birthday, so that he could privately wear Uncle’s gift—hanging sapphires that made his eyes glint and gleam when they caught the light. Uncle liked that. Uncle had always liked that Laurent had his eyes. Laurent found himself caring less and less, these days, about what Uncle liked.

The pet gazed around the hall theatrically as soldiers hollered, clamoring to be chosen as his scene partner. With a searing glance back at Uncle on the dais, he beckoned forward a bearded, broad-shouldered man in a red cloak: a member of the Regent's Guard. Slowly—locking eyes with the guard through fluttering lashes—the pet sank to his knees, and reached for the laces of the guard's trousers.

Clearly, tonight was going to bring another particularly poignant performance.

By now, Laurent had perfected the art of keeping his eyes open while seeing nothing at all. He was dimly aware of the pet's loud, showy moans, of the rapt crowd's lewd suggestions, but his own gaze was glazed and distant as he mentally flipped through the pages of a heavy historical tome, listing out dates and battles in his head.

_Year 538 After Artes, the Battle of Skarva. __Year 1056 After Artes, the Battle of Bazal. __Year 1292 After Artes, the Battle of Karthas. _

The guard was fucking the pet's mouth in earnest now: hard, deep thrusts, so fast and rough that the pet was gagging. Without looking away from the obscenity before them, Uncle leaned close, and said in a low, sotto voice for Laurent's ears alone, "He doesn't have your talents, does he?" A speculative pause. "Or, perhaps, your training."

_Year 1474 After Artes, the Battle of Marlas. _

Gripping the goblet so tightly his fingers were white, Laurent raised the drugged wine to his lips, and took a long, slow sip as if it were another of Paschal's tonics. _It will numb the pain._

Applause broke out again across the hall: the guard had finished; the pet had swallowed; the show was over. Breathing hard, the pet climbed unsteadily to his feet, wiped his mouth, and bowed with a shaky, still dazzling smile before climbing back to the dais and into his master's lap. Pleased, Jeurre fed him a morsel of boar.

As the rest of the hall went back to feasting—or went off in pairs to continue the next act in shadowed alcoves—Uncle raised his own goblet in toast. "A lucky guard, and a luckier Lord."

The pet lowered his eyes demurely, smirking, and Jeurre smiled. "Will you take a pet this year, Your Highness? A year past six months of mourning, surely no one would begrudge you some pleasure in life."

"That is kind of you to say," demurred Uncle. "I take pleasure in knowing my nephew's throne is secure." 

"And you,my Prince?" The praise had made him bold: Jeurre's pet leaned toward Laurent with an overtly seductive expression—dulled by the smudged paint around his eyes, and the fact that his usual chime of a voice was rough, throat hoarse from misuse. Under the circumstances, Laurent did not feel inclined to sympathize. "Where do you find your pleasure?"

_From my uncle's cock, or hand, when he's feeling generous, _Laurent imagined saying—imagined the pet's shocked gasp, Jeurre's look of horror. "I could ask the same of you," he managed to drawl, feeling a distant, twisted pride at the steady smoothness of his own voice. "Or was that little display meant to appear pleasurable?"

The pet flushed, but recovered quickly, shooting Laurent another flirtatious smile. "Perhaps a private display would be more to your liking."

"Are you a better actor with an audience of one?" Laurent arched a brow, disdainful. "I can't imagine you're a better cocksucker."

_"Language, _Laurent," said Uncle. Jeurre's own brows had risen nearly to his hairline, and the pet's face was now red as his rubies. "Such vulgar words are not befitting of a prince."

"You're right, Uncle, of course." Laurent picked up the goblet again, and finished the rest of the wine in a single gulp. Already, his mind felt hazy. His self-control was slipping fast. "Wherever did I learn such vulgar words?_"_

"Forgive my nephew his indecency," Uncle said to Jeurre. 

"Indecency," repeated Laurent. Half-hysteric laughter bubbled up in his throat, threatening to overflow. 

Uncle made no sign of hearing, continuing to speak to Jeurre as if Laurent were not there. "Such childish provocations are to be expected, I suppose. Boys his age can be so—" His gaze slid back to Laurent. "—desperate for attention."

Laurent tossed his untouched boar meat to the hound at his feet, and pushed back his chair with a loud, scraping sound. "I believe I've had enough _attention _for one day."

He descended the dais and swept toward the nearest door before Uncle could reply, heedless of the stares and whispers as he passed. The guards at the door—dressed in the green livery of Chastillon, not Regent red—bowed and let him through. In a few breathless moments, Laurent was outside at last: breathing in the cool night air, staring up at an expanse of stars. When his heart had stopped pounding, he gathered himself, and walked to the stables.

The groomsman looked up as he entered, eyes widening in recognition and surprise. "Your Highness," he stammered, bowing low. "I didn't—no one told me you were—"

"That will be all," Laurent said sharply, imitating Uncle's most intimidating icy stare. The young man backed away, still stammering out apologies, and nearly ran out of the stables, leaving Laurent with the horses. Alone.

Augustine nuzzled him gently as he approached, stroking her neck and caressing her side the way she liked. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling all his agony and anger seep away into deadened desolation. "I won't let him hurt you." She gave a soft snort, sounding almost skeptical. Laurent buried his face in her mane. "I promise." 

He wanted nothing more than to swing up onto her back and ride away from the stables, away from the fortress, away from the woods of Chastillon, forever. Freedom, far from Uncle and his favorite pastimes. Far from words wielded like weapons, and weapons he could not defend against with words.

But the drug would kick in soon, would settle in his bloodstream to pump docility and desperation through his veins. Riding was impossible, in that state—almost everything was impossible, aside from taking whatever Uncle chose to give him: too much, and never enough.

Perhaps, if he stayed here in the stables, he could ride it out alone, curled up with Augustine in the straw. But Uncle would still find a way to punish him, somehow—and if he spent the night in the stables, he wouldn't have to look far for a means of punishment.

"What a pretty picture."

Laurent jolted, releasing Augustine at once. A member of the Regent's Guard was at the entrance, crimson cloak backlit by moonlight. He gave Laurent a long, lewd look from head to toe—a look that had become uncomfortably familiar, as more and more men at court began to see Laurent the way Uncle used to.

It was ironic, he supposed, that as Uncle desired him less, everyone else seemed to desire him more.

"The Regent wishes to see you in his rooms."

"Does he," said Laurent.

The guard's smile was all teeth.

* * *

Laurent could find his way to Uncle's bedchamber blindfolded. He moved up the winding stone stairs and down the shadowed, torchlit corridor as though sleepwalking, passing the blue door leading to a smaller, less ornate room and suppressing a shudder. 

It had been a kindness, at one point, to be able to avoid that room by sleeping in Uncle's. Kindness and cruelty, with Uncle, had a way of blurring into each other.

He paused at the dark, carved door of Uncle's chamber: steeling himself as if for battle. When he finally swung it open, all the air swept from his lungs. 

Uncle was not alone. The blue-eyed page boy from the feast was there, reaching for the laces of his doublet. They both looked up as Laurent stepped inside, and froze.

"Nephew," said Uncle. "This lovely boy is here to attend me." His ringed fingers rested in the page's silky hair. "Why don't you show him how I like to be attended?"

With forceful, deliberate effort, Laurent kept himself from reeling backward. "No."

Uncle's eyes narrowed, flickering down between Laurent's legs for the briefest of moments, before his mouth curved upward in a smile. "Attend yourself, then."

Laurent waited for the drug to make him docile and desperate for release; waited for the compulsion to obey his uncle's every whim, to submit unthinkingly. It did not come. His mind, only slightly hazy from the wine, was somehow still his own. He arranged himself against the wall, one shoulder leaning leisurely against the stone. "I don't think I will."

They regarded each other, unblinking. Laurent kept all expression from his face and stayed very, very still. Finally, Uncle spoke to the uncertain page boy, eyes never leaving Laurent's. "Leave us for a moment and wait in the corridor. I require a word with the Prince."

"Yes, Your Highness," said the boy, bowing obediently out of the room.

When the door had closed behind him, Uncle said softly, "I see I have underestimated the extent to which you can hold your wine."

Laurent exhaled a breath of something like laughter. "Or overestimated the extent to which I share your tastes."

Uncle tilted his head. "I had thought we might share in a game."

"A game," repeated Laurent. Resentment and revulsion settled in his stomach alongside the wine, the tonic, and his uncle’s seed, twisting into forcibly repressed rage. "I believe I have outgrown your games, Uncle."

"Yes, I believe you have," Uncle said slowly. "Perhaps we will find a new game to play."

Knives both literal and metaphorical danced across Laurent's vision: the future, he saw suddenly, would be full of knives. "Perhaps we will." 

Uncle stared at him another long, penetrating moment without speaking, as if seeing him for the first time. "Jeurre may have been right," he said eventually, "about taking a pet. It looks strange, not to have one." Whatever he saw on Laurent's face, at that, made the corners of his mouth tug upward. "For appearance's sake, you understand." 

_Oh yes, _thought Laurent. _I understand. _"Am I to take a pet, too, then?" he asked caustically. "If we're so suddenly concerned about appearances."

"You're old enough now, aren't you?" The word was sweetly venomous on his uncle's tongue. _Old._ "I expect you'll have your pick," he went on after a lingering moment. "There are many who find you—" Those pitiless blue eyes flickered up and down Laurent's body. "—_appealing;_ many who would leap at the chance to bend you over. But I wonder... would they still want to, if they knew who already has?"

Uncle's steely, damning gaze held the answer: of course not. Who would want a boy who had tempted his own uncle? A boy so broken that he'd come to crave his uncle's touch? Ruined. Tainted. 

Laurent willed his voice not to shake, and it obeyed. "Perhaps you should tell them, then, Uncle." 

"Oh, nephew," said his uncle. "You know I wouldn't do that to you." With a final searing look, he moved to the fire, staring down into the crackling flames. "It wounds me, you know, to have us grow apart—to have you push away the one person left in the world who truly cares for you." Laurent dragged his gaze across the enormous bed, up to the painting of the speared boar. "After all I've given... all I've done for you... I truly can't imagine what more you could have wanted from me, Laurent."

What had he wanted, from Uncle? What had he hoped for, in those nightmare days after Marlas—in that first fateful night he'd climbed into his uncle's blood-red bed?

Comfort. Consolation. Protection. Love.

_Love _had not been at all what Uncle had wanted from _him._

Uncle released a low, heavy sigh, and turned. "You will sleep in the Crown Prince's room tonight." The blue door swam in front of Laurent's vision as Uncle added silkily, "It's yours now, after all. It's only proper."

"Proper," said Laurent. "Of course."

Uncle nodded, something unreadable passing behind his eyes, then gestured calmly toward the door in clear dismissal. "You need your rest—we have a long ride back to Arles ahead of us tomorrow." 

Laurent forced words out of his throat with concentrated effort. "How fortunate I have such a good horse."

His uninjured hand was on the door when Uncle spoke again. "Oh, and Laurent?" Freezing without looking back, Laurent could hear the vicious anticipation in his uncle's voice. He waited for the final slap, and managed not to flinch when it came: "Send in the page boy."

He was there at the end of the corridor, waiting just as he'd been told. Laurent took in his smooth, plump cheeks, his innocent, hopeful expression—so blithely honored, to be serving royalty—and hated him with all the seething loathing he typically reserved for Damianos. 

Upon seeing Laurent, he gave a careful, eager bow, saying in his high, unbroken voice, "Your Highness."

Laurent gathered imperious hauteur to himself like armor. "Fetch the palace physician and bring him to my chamber, then return to your own. You are dismissed for the evening."

The boy's blue eyes widened hugely. "The Regent said—"

"I know what the Regent said," snapped Laurent. His voice sounded cold. His entire being felt cold. "I am your Prince, and I have given you an order."

The boy cast his eyes down at once, blinking back tears at the chastisement. "Yes, Your Highness."

Laurent watched him go, then descended the stairs alone to Auguste's room, creaking open the blue door for the first time in nearly two years.

It looked nearly unchanged from the last time he'd seen it. A thin layer of dust covered the mantel and the desk—still littered with yellowed scrolls, royal correspondence untouched by Chastillon's servants even after the war—and the golden curtains looked frayed and threadbare. Burning coals simmered in the brazier, but the chamber was cold, with a draft that sank into his bones and swept through his heart.

Laurent's feet moved toward to the dusty bookshelf of their own accord. Several of his favorite childhood storybooks were still there, worn and faded. Auguste would often read to him at night, laughing as Laurent dissected each tale's historical accuracy, then play-act in the woods with him the following day: games full of mythical kingdoms to be saved and ruled; monsters to be fought and slain; captives to be rescued. Daring quests and dashing heroes.

He nearly scoffed at the naiveté, remembering. All the heroes were dead. The monsters had won.

He turned to the bed. It had felt impossible, felt _wrong, _to sleep here on the journey back to Arles after Marlas, to curl up in Auguste's empty bed alone as the new Crown Prince. _I understand, _Uncle had said when Laurent arrived red-eyed at his door, pleading to stay the night with him instead. It was Laurent who hadn't understood what he'd been asking for.

He mechanically unlaced and removed his jacket—convenient, that he no longer needed the help of a servant to undress—still staring at the bed. He felt no urge to sleep. He felt as though he had _been _asleep, for a very long time, and was now finally waking up.

"You wished to see me, Your Highness?"

Laurent turned to see Paschal at the still-open door. "That tonic you gave me." The physician closed the door behind him, carefully. "You said it would relieve pain."

"I hoped it would, Your Highness."

Laurent studied him. As ever, Paschal's respectful, calm expression held no hint of malice. "An antidote," he said at last, "to suppress the drug." His mouth felt dry, and tasted bitter. "You knew about the drug."

"I did not know, Your Highness," Paschal corrected quietly. "I guessed." When Laurent said nothing, he added, quieter, "I can make a draught of it, if you like, when we return to the palace."

Laurent placed his palms on the ledge of the mantel, feeling the cold, hard stone. He heard himself say, "I doubt I will be needing it any longer."

Pascal spoke with an uncommon tightness in his voice. “Allow me to help you, Your Highness.”

“You have already helped me, Paschal.” 

Finding an antidote. Preparing all those tonics, all those salves. Never once breathing a word of it to anyone, never once betraying his most shameful secret, never once displaying a trace of judgment or disgust. 

Paschal had served his mother, first; had tried to save her. Paschal must have been there, Laurent realized with a pang of something like sorrow, at his birth.

“I know that there is little I can do," Paschal was saying, low, "but what I can, I will. You have my word.”

“And you have my gratitude," said Laurent. “You have served the royal household well.”

Paschal said, “I serve the Crown, and the Crown is yours.”

That was the problem, wasn't it? The Crown was his now, not Auguste's. The Crown was his, not Uncle's.

Laurent eyed the dusty painting above the mantel: a knight on a horse, carrying a starburst banner. "Do you remember my first trip to Chastillon?" he asked, distant. "I fell from my pony, racing Auguste, and you told me—"

"It doesn't matter how many times you fall," finished Paschal. "It only matters whether you get back up again." He paused. "You never fell again, though, did you?"

"No," said Laurent. "My brother taught me well."

Paschal said softly after a moment, “I was a second son, a younger brother, like you.” His gaze was steady as he added, “Like your uncle.”

_Was._ None of them were brothers any longer: not Laurent, not Uncle, not Paschal. “What happened to your brother?”

“He was killed," Paschal said evenly, "as a member of the King's Guard."

The pain in his chest, Laurent reminded himself, did not have a cure. Paschal had no antidote for heartache. “Do you miss him?”

Paschal gave a slight, sad smile. “Every day.”

They stood in silence, alone with their own ghosts: Paschal's brother, who had died protecting the King, and Laurent's brother, who should have been King after.

The King's Guard had become the Regent's Guard, in the wake of Marlas. The Prince's Guard—Auguste's guards—had disbanded.

Laurent's mind was racing. He felt sharp and alert, suddenly, in ways he had not felt in ages, as though a heavy fog inside him was finally clearing to reveal a cool, clear sky.

Uncle had turned the guards against him, so he would find new guards of his own—allies, like Paschal. Uncle had turned his body against him, so he would bring it tightly back under his own control. Uncle had turned his emotions against him, so he would no longer allow himself to feel any emotions at all.

He would apply himself to the skills of a prince—to the skills of Auguste—and he would master them, newly honed and sharp-edged like the blade of Uncle's knife.

“I plan to form a Prince's Guard, upon returning to the palace," he told Paschal, half-uncertain what he was saying until he was saying it. "I plan to start sword training, too. We may be seeing a lot of each other, for awhile." He tilted his head. "I assume that I can count on your discretion.”

Paschal bowed his own head in firm assent. “Always.”

“Good." He paused, and forced himself to add, "And one more favor, if you’d be so kind.”

“Anything, Your Highness.”

“The page boy,” said Laurent. “The one who brought you here, the one my uncle likes.” He drew a breath. “I suspect he will soon need a salve.”

Paschal gazed back at him with some indefinable emotion that Laurent preferred not to decipher. “Whatever I can give, I will provide.”

Laurent nodded briskly, looking away to busy himself with the laces on the sleeve of his bandaged wrist. “Goodnight, Paschal.”

"Goodnight, Your Highness." He paused, for a moment, at the door. "Sleep well." 

Locking and barring the door behind him, Laurent paced the chamber well into the night, thinking and planning, until the candle on the desk burned to the wick and the last coal in the brazier went out. Then, heavy with fatigue, he leaned back against the pillows on his brother’s bed—staring at the starbursts on the ceiling.

When sleep claimed him at last, he dreamed of running a spear through a screaming boar, through Damianos of Akielos, and finally through Uncle's tainted heart.


End file.
